Polished white marble walls standing forty feet high made the church more formidable than any he could recall seeing, and the full-sized mural stained glass windows were... interesting. The bell house on the back of the structure, sixty five feet skyward, was its tallest point. Across the roof, standing at the peak, directly over the two huge wooden front doors, stood a statue of the Grim Reaper. It held a scythe in one hand and cast a bony finger downward with the other, pointing at pedestrians entering and exiting.
The inside, every bit as magnificent as the outside, had wide open space instead of benches. Burgundy Fibonacci patterns set in gray polished marble covered the floor. Two huge pillars, thirty feet apart, bore the weight of the roof. Between them, six white statues encircled an altar with a silk pillow on it.
With no benches to sit at, the crowd huddled around the altar as father Clyde spoke. “We are gathered here this morning to celebrate two miraculous gifts the gods have granted us. We thank the gods and ask for their blessings upon young Theressa Black Paw and Damian Dagger.”
Father Clyde gestured to Mary. She placed sleeping little Theressa on the pillowed altar, and returned to her husband’s open arms.
“We thank the Maiden,” the priest said, walking toward the sculpture of a young lady extending an upward palm as if offering the pile of stones seeds she held, “for her compassion. Compassion that forged the very bonds which brought Theressa into our lives.”
Victor was a happy man. As he noticed his beautiful wife fondly gazing upon their newborn child, his baby girl, the most amazing thing he's ever seen, he wondered where it all went so right? How did a cat like him, an orphan, raised by a spear, a killer, become so fortunate? What turn of fate did he receive that gave an old soldier like him such a satisfying life? “The gods are generous,” he thought.
Mary noticed her charming husband’s powerful gaze. It made her weak when he did that, but she felt safe under his watchful eye, and in his powerful arms. She knew that, for her and their adorable daughter, this handsome man would protect them. These strong, well defined arms holding her tight right now were the same ones that would rip apart anything that threatened her or their adorable daughter. How did she landed such a catch? She wasn’t sure, but this fine cat was going to be a more incredible father to their beautiful little girl than she could have ever hoped for. “Thank the gods,” she thought, melting into Victor's compassionate embrace.
Father Clyde noticed the couple's distraction and gave them a moment. The hall was quiet while he waited, shrugged his shoulders to the congregation, and with lips sealed together in a failed attempt to conceal his amusement, waited some more.
Victor was first to notice the silence. His uht-oh face caused Father Clyde’s smile breach containment.
“Ackem,” Victor awkwardly cleared his throat, bringing his wandering wife back to reality.
White teeth showed through Father Clyde’s wide grin as he continued, “We ask the Maiden, should Theressa come to a crossroad along her journey, a compassionate soul be sent to guide her down a fruitful path.”
Little Damian thought a blessing gave someone special powers to fight monster and such. Compassion though? If the priest’s words were literal, then the Maiden’s going to make some nice person help out little Theressa in the future. He hadn't considered destiny to be an enhancement before but it could be powerful, like how a main character can’t die, no matter what, until the end. If it's not literal, it could be anything, like a bonus to charisma maybe, not that she’d need it.
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Little Damian was looking forward to hearing the other five gods prayers.
“All those willing may, at this time, come forward and place tribute.”
The, one piece of solid marble, altar had a round depression in front of the pillow little Theressa was resting on. One by one the crowd came forward to place gold, silver, or small red beads in that depression. Once all the offerings were placed, father Clyde covered the bulky pile with a purple, velvet cloth, clasped his hands together and prayed. “May the gods accept our humble tribute and bless this child. Amen.”
“Amen,” the crowd echoed.
Little Theressa, who had been asleep all morning, woke up to see the bulk under the velvet cloth disappear.
It was only for a moment, but she locked eyes with little Damian. He did not get the mutual understanding he was hoping for. Her gaze just wandered away and she started crying. “Oh well, maybe she's just a normal calico cat-baby after all,” he thought.
Victor quickly stepped forward to collect little Theressa. He gave apologetic nods to the congregation as he returned to Mary's side with the wailing kitten.
Father Clyde, wearing his usual smile, gestured to Rose. It was little Damian's turn.
Positioned on the altar, at the center of attention, he was feeling pressure not to do anything unusual, least he get caught possessing his memories and spend a thousand years suffering like the mysterious message said might happen.
Father Clyde didn't start speaking immediately. He instead took slow steps around the altar, in front of the statues.
“Whew.” Little Damian was relieved. It wasn't that he thought the Maiden was a bad goddess, but it seemed like he was only getting one, and the other statues looked stronger.
To the right of the Maiden, the priest approached a statue of a cloaked figure holding a bow. “That one looked cool,” little Damian thought as he kept walking.
The next block of marble had a middle aged woman with a huge bust sculpted from it. She held a stalk of wheat in both hands like a lash, and as little Damian had hoped, Father Clyde’s slow steps continued.
The next one was a middle-aged man wearing a helm and holding a mace. As this statue was behind little Damian, it was the sound of Father Clyde’s footsteps that told him his first choice was being passed up.
Now there were only two deities left. One of these two geriatrics would represent the god little Damian would receive a blessing from. They had one blatantly obvious fact in common, they both depicted decrepitly old people.
“Hag,” little Damian thought of the first one, a woman with a wartted nose and a witch’s hat like the one from earlier, pointing a gnarled stick at the altar.
“Wizard.” The other statue’s intricately detailed beard falling all the way down to the feet of the crooked nosed old man, along with the five foot staff he was holding, made him the clear pick.
Little Damian, breath held, heart racing, watched Father Clyde take slow steps to the hunk of marble depicting a witch, and stop in front of it.
“We thank the Witch.”
“Fuck! It is a witch.”
“For the knowledge that has shaped the destinies of the family who delivered Damian into our hearts. We ask for Damian to be granted eyes, so that he may see this knowledge.”
“A little wordy but not bad,” little Damian thought, Father Clyde’s prayer sounding much better than what he had anticipated.
After the offerings were placed, Father Clyde again said, “May the gods accept our humble tribute and bless this child. Amen.”
What happened next left little Damian unable to maintain his baby poker face for a moment and with wide eyes, in front of everyone, he let out an audible “Whoa.”